


White Wolves

by Freya_Ishtar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Crossover, Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance, Smut, Sporadic Updates, UST, au elements, wonky magical time loop nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-19 08:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22274437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freya_Ishtar/pseuds/Freya_Ishtar
Summary: Researching the lost history of the most Ancient & Noble Houses (not by choice), Hermione finds a mystery in the Malfoy line and worse, a cover-up—one that involves staving off curiosity with a little bloodshed, it seems. Caught up in the enigma, she's pulled into a forgotten world none but those who've escaped it would believe even existed. (Show-based Geralt)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Hermione Granger
Comments: 161
Kudos: 781





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes (I'll try not to leave many, I know most readers ignore them anyway):
> 
> 1) Not all main/popular characters from these verses will appear. The focus of this fic is on Hermione & Geralt, so other characters will only enter into the story as necessary.
> 
> 2) Based on the Netflix series, not the games. I'll soon be reading the books upon which both are based, so events/characters/locales from the novels may come up as the story goes on (I'm also researching the lands & language in The Witcher so I can more correctly portray Geralt's world [there may be some errors, bear with me]).
> 
> 3) There are some fairly big tells in this opening chapters as far as how the story will progress/end, so if you catch them, that's okay, you're meant to ;)
> 
> I was a little nervous about even having this idea, but my readers have been super supportive and excited for this story from the moment I mentioned having an inkling about it. Thank you so much for that!  
> * * * * * * * * * *  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or The Witcher, or any affiliated characters respective to either work, and make no profit, in any form from this work.

**Chapter One**

Everyone in the Ministry's expansive legal department had looked . . . mildly terrified, if Harry were being completely honest, when he came strolling through the doors that evening. He'd understood things had been a tad bit tense since Hermione had been promoted to working directly under the department head, but this, the way everyone seemed like they were bolting toward the exit at the end of business that day as though no one felt they could leave the place fast enough, seemed a touch dramatic.

When he moved closer to her office, however, he began to understand why.

"Son of a _bitch_! Why the bloody hell . . . ? For fu—office, Hermione, be appropriate —for pity's sake! And just what sort of rubbish is _this_ now? Oh, that _useless_ woman!"

Opening the door, he poked his head into the room. There she was, her wild hair more frazzled then ever, her brown eyes reduced to angry little slits, fair cheeks touched with angry spots of pink, and documents everywhere, spread across her desk, spilling onto the floor . . . she even had a few that seemed to want to cling to her arm.

"Um, hullo?"

The witch appeared ready to throw her quill at the interruption—he imagined it sailing, dead-shot, into his eye like a dart through the air of a pub—until she looked up and saw who stood there. Immediately the set of her shoulders eased and some of the strain fled her expression. "Harry!"

"So, what's going on in here?" he asked in a falsely jovial sing-song tone as he stepped inside, gently closing the door behind him. "From the looks on your coworkers' faces, one would think you were battling a demon with your quill and some choice words, alone."

She groaned and returned her attention to the mound of paperwork scattered before her. "Certainly feels like it," she grumbled with a sigh.

Frowning, he walked across the floor and rounded her desk to peer over her shoulder. "What is all this? Looks like . . . half-finished family trees."

"This," she said in a hissing whisper, "is as far as my boss got before she handed off the task to me. And, yes, it's exactly what it looks like. D' you remember when our _dear_ old friend, Dolores Umbridge, was the Senior Undersecretary of the Ministry?"

"I do vividly recall that pastel-coloured travesty of justice, yes."

"And you remember her claim that she got her hands on Salazar Slytherin's Locket because it was a family heirloom passed down to her from the Selwyns?"

He nodded. "I remember she was lying through her yellow teeth."

Hermione smirked, snickering under her breath. "Well, she had good reason for thinking she'd get away with it. Apparently during her tenure, she spent many a day in the Ministry's archives—unsupervised due to her rank—mucking up family registers. She was so embarrassed to have a Squib brother and a Muggle mum that she wanted the entire world to believe the Wizarding blood from her father's side was purest of the pure, best way to do that was to make sure no one could contradict her claims . . . best way to do _that_ —"

"Was to destroy evidence that said otherwise."

She braced an elbow on the desk and dropped her forehead down against the heel of her palm. "And in order to not have anything stand out and look suspicious in case someone else did have the chance to look, she wiped clean patches of other family registers at random—of course, only those descended from the Most Ancient and Noble Houses, so that if someone was, say, looking for a pattern—"

"They'd _assume_ that because her line was included, it must mean she's descended from one of those Houses."

"Exactly. And this is why we're friends. You just _get_ me, Harry."

For his part, Harry only shrugged. She must be tired, he thought, as his conclusion seemed fairly logical and obvious from the information she was giving him. "She had control of so much for so long, she probably thought she could bar access to the records for anyone who might catch on."

"Seems to be the case, which is why it was only caught recently." Hermione didn't need to explain further on that point. With everything that had befallen the Ministry of Magic during the Second Wizarding War, checking over supposedly ancient records was rather low on the to-do list. "She was in charge of that vile Muggleborn Registration Act, so along with all the other things she should never have had her fat fingers in, she had complete control over familial records for every citizen of Wizarding Britain. It also made it easier for her to tie herself to the Selwyns, because the only surviving member of the family is a Death Eater, most of whom hadn't a clue about the Horcruxes, and _he_ was busy working with the Snatchers at that time. He wasn't exactly going to drop that so he could come deal with a half-blood witch defending her possession of a trinket."

"Hermione, _deep_ breath," he insisted. At this rate, she was going to give herself a migraine.

The witch nodded, inhaling long and deep and exhaling slow a few times before nodding again. "Sorry. I just still hate that woman so much. It's like every new thing I learn about her time in any position of power is just another item on the _long_ list of reasons she'll burn in Hell."

"Sounds about right." He pushed himself back to sit on the lone clear spot of space on her desk. "Look, the pure-bloods—even the ones locked up in Azkaban—are ridiculously proud of their lineage. They should have their own records, shouldn't they? Or be willing to fill in the blanks however they can? Can't this just be as simple as going and asking them for their records?"

She stood from her seat and stretched, causing the disconcerting sound of joints cracking in the small of her back. "God, I've been sitting here for hours. Anyway, yes, you'd think so, but I'm encountering resistance from a most unexpected place. I've been in contact with a number of the affected families, and the vast majority of them have been more than happy to comply with my request for records. I've got appointments all next week of people coming in to _proudly_ show me their 'authentic documentation.' A few have owled me duplicates, but there's about a third of that I can't seem to make sense of, hence the spitting and cursing you heard when you came in."

"Well, now that we're all caught up . . . who's the hold out?"

Turning her gaze on the parchment strewn across her desk, she tapped a finger against one in particular.

Harry arched a brow. "The Malfoys? That's surprising."

"Not so much, what's surprising is the _way_ their register's information is missing. Not like it was wiped in Umbridge's erasure. The Black side is completely accounted for, but the Malfoy side it just . . . I dunno, it feels weird, it's like at some point the family just sort of sprung up out of nowhere."

"Well, that certainly can't be right."

"I know, that's the problem. The Malfoys appear to date back only as far as the later part of the thirteenth century." She pointed to the apparent base of the tree, where the initials _GR_ and _ML_ were listed as a root pair, but nothing more. "The other erasures start from earlier on and reach onward, leaving only the more recent generations; the Malfoy erasure ends too far back to really sync."

He frowned in thought. "Maybe she just made a mistake?"

"That's entirely possible, but requests for documentation from Lucius Malfoy about his ancestry have been declined or ignored, entirely. Apparently, however he responded to direct inquiry was precisely the straw that broke my superior's back and caused her to hand this rubbish down to me."

"How is any of this a legal matter?"

The exhausted witch shrugged. "Inherited finances and property holdings. If there was ever a dispute—which there hadn't been, another thing which led to Umbridge's scheme going undiscovered for so long—it would fall to us to sort it out. _God_! I got into this department to learn more about Wizarding laws and try to change them for the better of the downtrodden, not to have pure-bloods parade around my office puffing out their chests and patting themselves on the back for their ancestors' inbreeding!"

Okay, she was getting feisty again. "All right, you're working yourself up again. I think . . . ." Holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, he eased himself to his feet and took hold of her hands, pulling her out of her chair. "I think you need to let your best friend take you to dinner and maybe buy you a drink, or five. You can deal with this tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is Saturday," she said with a wince as he turned her by her shoulders and pushed her toward the door.

"Exactly," he replied, again with that forced joviality. "You pop over there tomorrow and if you find Mr. Malfoy is _still_ being disagreeable—which is highly likely, since this is Lucius Malfoy we're talking about—perhaps Draco would be willing to help. We did save his life a few times, you can always throw that in his face to get the ball rolling and you'll have the answers you need when you return to work on Monday."

"I guess, it's just . . . God." The witch groaned and shook her head at her predicament. "Chasing after a Malfoy for the sake of some ruddy documents on my _weekend_? This job really has me thinking I'd rather be back in the thick of battle, up to my neck in foul monsters of the Dark."

* * *

Geralt scowled. He was near-literally built for his job, but some days he didn't wonder if a life spent toiling over paperwork—fretting over how some rich bastard of a lord wasted his wealth—might not more ideal of a thing. As sure as his strike had been, that creature had _still_ exploded on impact. The slice should've been clean, quick, precise.

Yet, here he stood wiping rank purple-black guts and spurt from his face with the back of his hand all the same as if he'd run at the beast swinging his blade like a drunken barbarian.

This was why he _hated_ Aedirn. The nobles were horrid and their townsfolk not much better, the forests were horrid, the monsters . . . well, went with the territory, really. But then he'd known there was no escaping having to venture into Arthur's Realm. Not with his former lover's words still ringing, incessantly, in his ears as if by magic—which he, frankly, would not put past her. He had to go here because she'd foreseen it. That _here_ , he would stumble upon his future, for whatever that was supposed to mean. First that had meant raising Ciri, but that was all done. What it meant now, he had no idea.

Absolute nonsense. There was _no_ future to be found in the ransacked ashlands of Lower Aedirn, though there he was headed. Yennefer insisted. Ciri—grown and capable and no longer in need of a protector as she set to rights the overturned empire of Nilfgaard while restoring a gentler, renewed queendom of Cintra, and trusting of the elf-blooded mage at her word—insisted, and he thought if Jaskier were still around, the bloody bard would have insisted, too.

Honestly, Geralt was more certain by the moment, by every crunching footfall through this accursed forest, that he'd chosen to undertake the journey _just_ so they'd stop pestering him about it. He just had to get to Lormark, he hadn't even been trying to hunt anything just now, yet here he fucking was, wiping the blood from the silver blade of his sword against the forearm of his black leather jerkin as he glared down at the malformed thing. He wasn't even certain what it was and that didn't happen often.

In truth, that was a circumstance which occurred so rarely that he was a little troubled by it.

Lifting his head, he held still as his gold eyes scanned the trees around him. He would keep his sword unsheathed until he was out of the vast, forested outskirts of Dol Blathanna, entirely. It was quiet here, unnaturally so. Forests were never silent, but then perhaps the animals were only sensing him, yet he doubted it. Wherever this thing had come from, however it had come to be, there was every possibility it was not alone.

Perhaps someone in Lormark would have a tale to tell which might shed some light on this.

His features twisting unpleasantly, he started bagging up the beast. Some damn fool alchemist might think its uniqueness a good thing, or a taxidermist might want it for a curiosity, either way the creature was certain to be worth a few coins to someone.

He'd get himself cleaned up—not a thing he normally fussed about, but the animal that had just bled on him was bound to be offensive to the senses for miles around soon enough—have a good night's rest at an inn and, provided there were no further surprises in store for him, be on his way to cross the Dyfne river first thing tomorrow.

Tugging a cord tight around the mouth of the sack, he sealed it shut and slung it across his shoulder. Gods, his missed his horse.

Whatever awaited him in Lower Aedirn—if anything at all, he was beginning to wonder if Yennefer wasn't going slightly mad after all these years—wasn't going anywhere.

* * *

Hermione was half-certain she might still be just a wee bit inebriated from the night before as she banged her fist against the door of Malfoy Manor late the next morning. But that was good, she thought, as she wasn't sure she'd be able to do this sober, and it absolutely beat the hell out of the headache with which she'd awoken just scant hours earlier. Backpedaling a step, she waited for someone to answer. There was a strange sort of glee for her in remembering that the Malfoys had to answer their own door since one of the penalties they'd faced for helping the Dark Lord—their eluding imprisonment or any formal charges notwithstanding—had been that they were stripped of the right to acquire any new 'servants.' Though, she didn't recall there being much of a scramble to replace Dobby, so perhaps the dear little elf had been more difficult of a loss on Lucius Malfoy than she'd considered.

"Oh, well," she muttered to herself under her breath. "Maybe if you'd treated him better, Harry wouldn't have tricked you into freeing him."

As though on cue—perhaps his ears were burning—the door creaked open and there stood the Malfoy patriarch, himself. He appeared to take a moment to collect his thoughts, clearly startled at her presence upon his step. "Miss Granger?"

"Mr. Malfoy?" she said with a curt nod. "Good, we both know who we are."

His slate-grey eyes narrowed lethally. "To what do I owe the . . . courtesy?" As though it weren't plainly obvious he had a completely different sentiment in mind than that she was here to be _courteous_.

My, his attitude had gotten even more prickly since the last time she'd crossed paths with him. A year after War's End, they'd nearly collided in the bookstacks of Flourish and Blotts and he'd had the audacity to seem surprised to see her for some reason. As though she should be hiding her head after her side lost the War and she'd only saved her own arse with a last minute defection across battle lines . . . . Oh, no, wait . . . .

Okay, so she was being a bit internally cheeky just now, however, she felt it warranted, because whatever he'd said to her boss had left the poor elder witch even refusing to speak about the Malfoys, let alone bring up their lineage. Never mind that _that_ was literally their job right now. Hermione was braced to not let herself be intimidated by the man and that, apparently, meant joking within her own head to keep an absurd image of him firmly planted.

Withdrawing the paperwork from where she'd held it tucked beneath her arm, she didn't wait be invited in, instead she slipped past him to stand in the foyer—there was an advantage to being on the petite side. As she moved by him, she pressed the documents to his chest, forcing him to take them.

"What . . . ?" Evidently flustered by her bold behavior, Lucius turned to face her as he looked at the papers she'd shoved at him. "Oh, Merlin, not this rubbish again."

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy, _this_ rubbish again." She don't know why she'd found him so intimidating when she'd been a child. Certainly he was still an imposing figure, and he very much looked like he could still slice right to someone's very heart with no more than his acidic wit, but she was too annoyed at simply having to be here to care. "If you'd only assisted Mrs. Shafiq, you remember her? My superior at the Ministry, nice lady, seems to feel just mentioning your name might bring the fires of Hell down upon her for some reason? Yes, well, had you simply complied with her request for validating documentation so that she could replace the missing information on the Malfoy family register, I would not have to be here now. On. A. _Saturday_."

Harry had been wise to suggest this, after all, as it seemed the very fact that it was a Saturday might be enough to keep her ire stoked while she was saw this through. She had not set foot in Malfoy Manor since the day she'd been tortured by Bellatrix; staying angry would likely stifle any residual fear that might result from being here.

Shockingly, perhaps, Lucius arched a brow in a thoughtful expression as he shut the door and turned to face her. "Have you ever been told, Miss Granger," he said with a lazy sigh as while he took a moment to examine the papers, "that when you speak while angry, you bare your teeth?"

Her forehead creased in puzzlement at the bizarre segue. "What?"

"Rather like . . . ." He seemed to consider his words before he met her gaze and nodded, a frown curving his mouth downward. "Rather like a little wolf."

The witch's chestnut eyes flashed wide and she breathed deep, drawing herself up to stand as tall as she could. "Mr. Malfoy, you are going to take me to your family records, and you're going to do it _now_. I do not have time for games or insults."

He shrugged and, as she could swear he muttered something under his breath about it not _exactly_ being an insult, walked by her, presumably to lead her through the house. "Very well, as you wish. This way."

"Finally," she whispered with a shake of her head.

She followed along, relieved to find he was being somewhat more agreeable than expected . . . . Until he led her to the basement door. "Down there?" she asked, her brows shooting up so high they nearly disappeared into her hair.

"We keep our family archives separate from our library, you understand."

"Fine, here I am, _understanding_ ," she said with a nod, but unable to deny a sudden spiky tension winding through the pit of her stomach. "You go first."

Again Lucius Malfoy shrugged, strangely she thought he might've expected her to react this way as he put up no fight, nor did he seem curious about her caution. She told herself it was a matter of him being fully cognizant as to why she did not trust him as far as she could throw him—with _out_ magic.

She felt like perhaps she should reach for her wand as she trailed after him, down the lantern-illuminated stone staircase. Assuring herself she was being paranoid—despite her earlier belief that staying angry would keep any lingering fears at bay—she stopped herself from retrieving her weapon from the leather sheath on the inside of her left forearm. The war might be long over, but she'd taken the lesson to never go _anywhere_ unarmed with her.

He reached the foot of the staircase and continued along, not even looking back to see if she continued to follow him. It was all quite unsettling, really. If this was what he'd done to Mrs. Shafiq, then Hermione couldn't say she blamed the woman for not wanting to deal with him again. He probably thought unnerving them within an inch of some sort of breakdown served them right for feeling any need to question his family's lineage.

God, the Malfoys were an exhausting lot.

"In here, then," he said, pausing in a doorless archway.

When she didn't budge from the bottom of the staircase, there was finally a crack in his blasé exterior as he rolled his eyes. "Really, Miss Granger? And here I'd always suspected you possessed of an _over_ abundance of bravery."

Her eyes narrowed sharply at his prompting. "There is a line between bravery and stupidity, and you'll forgive me if I refuse to be stupid enough that blindly trusting a Malfoy would ever cross my mind."

She expected that he might find her continued boldness insulting, but instead he smirked and nodded. "Noted. But this _is_ where you'll find what you're after."

He ducked into the room and she waited, still. After a few moments, she heard the unmistakable sound of a book thudding against a wooden surface—if anyone would recognize such a noise at a distance, it would be her. A bit of the tension draining from her, though she refused to lower her guard much at all, she proceeded after him.

There, set out on an ancient desk before a wall of marvelously aged and tightly-packed shelves, rested a book. Its dense leather cover made a soft crackling noise as he eased it open.

Stepping aside, he swept a hand toward the desk in a gesture of invitation.

With a hard swallow, Hermione willed herself to enter the room. A chill went through her as she crossed the threshold and again the thought to draw her wand reared its head. Telling herself it was her imagination, she approached the desk. Mr. Malfoy had rather thoughtfully set out the papers from her office, along with a quill and an ink bottle, on either side of the open tome.

Well, now she felt ridiculous. This _was_ helpful, after all.

"Thank you," she said stiffly.

Lucius Malfoy nodded as he backpedaled, apparently leaving her to her work only after he watched her handle the book for a few quiet moments. Had he been waiting for something? "Miss Granger?"

"Hmm?" she breathed the sound, distracted with the feel of the thick, worn pages beneath her fingertips.

"Where are you from?"

Shaking her head at the odd question, she said, "London, why?"

"Simply curious."

As she turned a page in the book, she spied a telltale smear of crimson. Her stomach clenched in apprehension at the sight. Hadn't . . . . hadn't Mrs. Shafiq come in with her hand bandaged the same day she told Hermione this task was hers, now?

The elder witch had claimed it was nothing—her familiar had been startled and scratched her, but this . . . ?

"Mr. Malfoy," she started, a lump in her throat and the fingers of her right hand touching to the hilt of her wand at her left wrist. "What did you do?" she finished the question as she turned on her heel to face the door, her weapon at last drawn on him.

Yet, Lucius Malfoy was nowhere to be seen.

Where he'd stood, just inside the archway, rested something that glinted, round and silver, beneath the lantern light.

Her wand gripped tight and aimed toward the main body of the basement, she approached the object. The face of a wolf stared back at her from the surface of the medallion Lucius Malfoy had left there. _Have you ever been told, Miss Granger, that when you speak while angry, you bare your teeth? Rather like a little wolf._

A sharp breath escaped her as the words echoed through her mind. What sort of madness was going on here?

Unable to help herself, she reached for it, pinching the long chain between two fingers and lifting it from the floor.

Okay, not a portkey, she thought in relief—she would not put it past him to have booby-trapped the necklace simply to get her out of his hair.

Relief . . . until she traced her fingers over the outline of the wolf's face. Clever bastard had contained the charm to only one piece of the necklace, lulling curious parties into a false sense of security. She was sent whirling, but knew better than to let go of the medallion or she'd go flying off mid-travel and likely end up _severely_ injured, if she was lucky enough to survive. Instead, she wrapped her fingers around it tight and held it to her chest, her wand still grasped in her right hand as she braced for her landing.

The portkey dropped her, surprisingly gently, on a grey shore.

Breathless and dizzy, she tried to collect herself as she got to her feet. "Stupid portkey!" she bellowed, though there seemed no one about to hear her. "I'm not letting you out of my sight." The witch slipped the chain around her neck. After Lucius Malfoy's bizarre behavior, and his comments, she could not help but think this necklace was important, somehow.

She looked about. There appeared to be nothing here, the entire landscape was . . . well, barren would be a polite way to state it. Turning toward the body of water at her back, she saw on the other side a wholly different image. The steepled roofs of a town in the distance and lush green surroundings. Where the hell was she?

Frowning, she braced to Apparate back home . . . yet nothing happened. Alarmed, she aimed at a pebble in the sand. " _Wingardium Leviosa_." Swish and flick and up the pebble lifted. She set it back down. So her magic worked, but not Apparition?

Something was clearly _very_ wrong here.

Swallowing her unease, Hermione sheathed her wand. She couldn't know how the locals wherever she'd landed would take to a witch—she started toward the water's edge, intent on finding a way across.

* * *

Hours passed and she wanted to collapse on the spot even as she pushed herself to keep walking. Night was creeping across the sky when she happened upon a decidedly narrow bow in the river. She might even be able to wade across without too much difficulty, but she halted.

There, too, was a small group of what appeared to be fishermen, building a fire on the shore. A boat was run up in the sand not far from them.

Maybe they could tell her . . . .

No, no. A trickle of ice pooled in her stomach as she watched them. Their clothes were so odd. Medieval, maybe? Not in the way of Wizarding clothing, either.

Swallowing down her fear and disorientation, she began to inch backward, trying to retreat into the shadows.

"Oi! Oi, you over there? C'mere."

Fantastic. She didn't know the protocol here, what she did know was that if she ran, these strangers might give chase and that could not possibly lead to anything good.

Nodding, she plastered on a polite grin and moved slowly toward them. "Um, my apologies, I didn't mean to intrude."

"Nonsense, you're probably cold. I's okay, you can share the fire."

With another nod, her brows shot up. "Oh, thank you."

As she stepped closer, still, however, the man's gaze caught on the silver wolf.

"How'd you get that?" he demanded through clenched teeth as he shot to his feet. "I's just like the one they say the Butcher wears."

Her eyes shot wide, panic beating in her chest. "The _what_?"

"You're one of _them_ , ain't ya?"

"She can't be, she's a girl," the nearest of his companions said, but that didn't stop him from drawing a blade.

Holding up her hands, she tried to speak calmly while she reached her fingers toward her sheathed wand in a slow, subtle movement. "Whoa, sirs, please! I've no idea what you mean."

"Her clothes . . . look at her clothes! She's from somewhere _else_. Maybe she stole it, but better safe than sorry, yeah?"

Apparently, this all meant something to the man and his companions, but Hermione'd had enough of this. In one day, she'd been hung over, still slightly buzzed, angry, unnerved, scared, felt threatened, shunted off to who knows where and now threatened _again_ —overtly this time!

No more bullshit. She was simply _done_.

As she gave up the pretense and grabbed for her wand, yet before she could draw it, before she could reveal its presence to her enemies, she heard, more than felt, a sharp crack against the back of her skull.

There were stars bursting before her eyes, and then everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sincerely, genuinely, nervous when posting the first chapter of this fic, but you guys . . . you really brought it, and I cannot say thank you enough. Like, you don't understand unless you write crossovers, but this story was at over 65 reviews before it had even reached 1k hits (which if you're at all familiar with the ratio of readers to reviewers in the fanfic community, you already know is a huge deal), and for most writers, that's a lot of reviews for a single-fandom story, let alone a crossover. So, sincerely, thank you for making me feel like I made the right choice by going ahead with writing this. *big heart (since FFN doesn't let us leave less-than-three)*
> 
> Two of my friends who are fanfic writers & readers have their own Hermione/Geralt crossovers in the works. I know a lot of readers are itching for more fics of them (I did find one other such fic on FFN, it's a 10k+ word one-shot entitled Abandonment by Galadhwen Ainion [which, according to publish dates is actually the first Witcher/HP crossover, how cool is that?], because after enough 'I've been waiting for this kind of fic' reviews, I had to go look for myself, as I couldn't believe they were in such limited supply, but as it turns out, there are only 22 fics on FFN, 24 on Ao3 [some of which are simply dual-posted] for this fandom-crossing). Anywho, when those lovely ladies post their fics, I will provide the titles and their pennames (as well as sharing the links on my FB fanfic page) so you lot can go love on their works. 😊
> 
> It is a personal creative decision to refer to Lower Aedirn as the ashlands. I based it on the description of the area, which tells of every village and region having been ransacked, and the land reduced to ash by the Nilfgaard troops.

**Chapter Two**

His eyes opened in the nighttime dark of his grubby room in the equally grubby inn. It had been a place to wash up and rest, so he hadn't needed more than that. It was still a bit exhausting—if not at all unexpected—that with all he'd done, there was still those, especially in these smaller villages that hedged more formal and distinct towns, who cowered at the sight of him, who whispered the name _Butcher_ as he strode past, as though he could not hear. He'd stayed out of Lormark proper, for there was a good chance that suddenly every second person who'd ever heard a bump in their cellars after dark would decide they needed the services of a monster hunter.

If Yennefer's insistence was to be taken seriously, he simply did not have the luxury of time.

Sleep. He needed to get back to sleep so he could be up and out of here early in the day. Turning on his side, he smashed his fist against his pillow. Dropping his cheek down against the worn fabric, he forced his eyes shut.

It had bothered him that the alchemist, while finding the bizarre creature indeed intriguing and more than happy to part with a hefty bag of ducats to have Geralt hand over her 'prize', did not seem able to tell him anything useful about what the animal might be. He was not one to believe in coincidences—whenever he'd let himself consider that incidents which appeared connected due to odd timing had nothing whatsoever to do with one another, he soon enough found himself unpleasantly surprised by those unconnected things suddenly presenting themselves as links of fate—and that an unidentifiable monster happened to be in that place at that time exactly as he, a monster hunter, was happening through and only being in this area because he had been told he 'had' to get to a place beyond it, struck a little too much of the word coincidence for his comfort.

He had asked if she had perhaps heard rumor of beasts that might've somehow survived in the ashlands to the south and found their way across the Dyfne. The alchemist had provided no answer for that, either, but had blanched at the prospect in a way that made him think perhaps she did have some suspicion about the matter. Some of these small village folk were superstitious in regard to speaking of Lower Aedirn at all, which perhaps made it surprising she hadn't shown him the door the moment the words left his lips.

Instead, he simply took his pay, asked which of the local area's inns would be least likely to turn him away—a ducat was a ducat until it came from the coin purse of a witcher, then it might as well be a bloody pebble he was handing over—and departed.

The question of the creature's very existence had troubled Geralt the rest of the evening. As he'd eaten, as he'd mindfully ignored the wandering gaze of one very eager barmaid—he found he was in no mood for such company tonight—as he'd bathed, as he'd bedded down for the night. He was not in the habit of killing monstrous-looking things simply because they were monstrous. His frame sagged against the mattresses, the misunderstanding weighing on him as it always did.

What most humans did not know—typically because they did not care to know—was that for such creatures, mere existence was agony. Every moment they drew breath, they suffered. That was why he killed them. It was a mercy, hence why he avoided killing something _if_ it was possible. When they attacked, lashed out, behaved precisely as one expected a monster _to_ behave, it was very often out of that mindless, maddening suffering and a violent desire to find an end.

Oh, certainly there were _evil_ creatures in the world, monsters that should truly be feared, but in his experience, those dread beasts usually wore the faces of men. Yet, he understood. It was far easier to justify fear, to justify a lack of willingness to understand, by pointing a finger and declaring a thing painful to look at as 'evil.'

What troubled him now was his original notion that if this creature had been _made_ , then it was almost definitely not alone. Others were likely out there. In pain, wishing for the sort of peace that only came with death. Worse, if he were right, some _one_ was behind these abominations. If that was, indeed, the truth of it, they would not want to be found. Though he refused to open his eyes, one silvery brow arched high on his forehead. Logic would dictate that such a person would hide somewhere overlooked because no one saw a purpose in going there.

Somewhere like the ashlands.

He let out a rough, angry breath. His exhalation erupted almost disturbingly loud against the quiet of his rented room.

He could be wrong, of course. This could be simply one creature with the misfortune of being born so mangled and misshapen—he ignored the question of how such a malformed thing could have survived so long, on its own _and_ unseen, because stranger things happened every day.

Yes. He could absolutely be wrong. The ashlands could hold nothing at all.

This could all be a coincidence . . . .

Golden eyes snapping open, his gaze locked on the window in the wall across from where he lay. The night sky had clearly done something to warrant the witcher's wrath, because he met the moon and stars with a glare.

"Fuck," he grumbled the word under his breath as he sat up. So much for sleep.

* * *

It was quiet when Hermione came to. There was no moment of disorientation as she tried to recall what had happened, because the completely ludicrous series of events which had let to her current circumstances were strangely clear and ordered in her head. That was despite the terrible, throbbing ache in the back of her skull, of course.

She carefully cracked open one eye to look about. The fire that had initially drawn her crackled still in the hastily dug pit, but its flames were dwindling a little, and three men lay around its perimeter snoring off and on. Well, that explained the knot on the back of her head, as she had only seen two men earlier. Yet, the one who'd seemed to be in charge was nowhere to be seen.

At least not from this vantage point.

Her wrists were bound, as were her ankles, but strangely she was covered in a blanket? Or maybe it was a cloak? They were trying to keep her from falling ill due to exposure despite that she was clearly being held against her will. Very odd treatment for a prisoner . . . but maybe not so odd, she realized with a shock of cold through her stomach, for a _commodity._

A dozen terrible stories of the Dark Ages—and far more recent, yet equally horrific, history, for that matter—ran across her mind, stories of people being treated like things to be bought, sold, or traded. They planned to sell her, or at least use her for something that required she remain in good health. The knot on the back of her skull notwithstanding, of course.

She had to find a way out of this mess. And quickly.

Hermione turned her head by increments, listening for any indication that her movement had been noticed by parties unseen. There was nothing to be heard save for crackling wood, the nearby lap of the water, and the hushed snores of her slumbering captors. The witch gauged her surroundings as she looked for the group's leader.

The boat was unfortunately of no use to her, as she didn't know the first thing about sailing, but the pair of horses tied not far off and currently dosing showed promise. She could ride . . . not _well_ , but decently. Just within sight, settled on the floor of the boat against the side . . . against the wall? She truly didn't know anything about boats, but she could see these men, whatever they were here for, had come prepared for the desolate landscape this side of the river; there were baskets of what appeared, from where she was, might be food . . . dried meats, maybe fruits or vegetables. She felt stupid for that first thought that these were fishermen. They had clearly planned to be here, in this place with no obvious civilization in which to barter, or wilds in which to hunt, for some time.

What could they possibly be doing here?

She shook her head, forcing her wandering attention to refocus on her situation. What did she have?

Okay, transportation? Check. Hell, she'd run out of here on her own two legs if the horses were too stubborn—hadn't she already surmised that the narrowed section of the water here would be passable on her own? Well, provided she didn't get swallowed up by some mythical sea creature, of course, which seemed not _entirely_ unlikely, given what had happened to her so far within just the last half a day, alone.

Destination? Check. For now, she'd aim for the treeline across the water. She feared that if she traveled openly on whatever roads, she might get herself captured again. Best to remain hidden until she neared civilization enough that she could observe the people, assimilate the local fashion, and then blend in. This was all so taxing. She just wanted her bed at home so very badly.

After clearing the water, she'd dismount and travel by foot. Certainly a horse was more ideal in terms of speed, but it would be easier to find cover for herself in a pinch if she were alone than if the very visible presence of a horse signaled curious parties that someone might be near by.

Wait. That daft man and his companion only turned on her after spying the medallion 'round her neck. She couldn't see from where she was without moving too much, but they'd probably taken it. It was thick, fine silver, after all, and probably worth quite a bit. Just now she couldn't worry about this Butcher nonsense they'd muttered about. For all she knew, their actual local butcher had a similar necklace, though she very much doubted their reaction was on account of anything so simple.

_God, Hermione, stop sidetracking._

Supplies? Check. She'd nick one of their packs and stuff what she could grab from one of those baskets in on top of whatever might already be in there, since it was likely to be more supplies—of the travel-ready variety, and of course the cloak they'd generously provided her.

Now she only had to worry for getting herself untied, which would be simple if they left her wand on her . . . . She pressed her forearms together to feel for its shape and was not at all surprised to find her wand holster empty. She doubted they knew what it was, but she carried it as one would a weapon—concealed, yet easy to draw—hence removing it from her person was a precaution. Not as dumb as she'd hoped, given they'd left her unguarded. Maybe that was not a question of intellect, but instead of underestimation? Because she was a small _ish_ , slender female with no overt weapons on her?

Then again, when she finally spotted the group's leader, she though perhaps she was overestimating _them_. He sat just a little away from the rest of them, examining her wand as a caveman might a rifle.

He clearly knew it was some sort of weapon, and she thought he should be very grateful she hadn't had a firearm on her when she'd picked up that damned portkey—and that wands did not work for Muggles—because if she had, then the bloody fool would've just shot himself in the eye with the way he was looking at it.

She supposed there was some relief in him not recognizing a magic wand when he saw one. Perhaps there were no witches in this place?

Her left eye open just that small sliver, she kept herself still. He had to nod off some time. Hermione considered trying to talk him into handing over her wand so she could pretend she was going to show him how it worked, but she couldn't risk that he might not be as dumb as she was hoping. If he saw through such a ruse, he'd wake his crew and then she'd never have an unguarded moment.

It felt like hours later, she was nearly in danger of nodding off, herself, by the time the stubborn man stowed the fanciful bit of carved wood he'd taken from her person inside the pack beside him. He laid down, pillowing his head on it.

Her features tightened in an angry scowl. Okay, getting the wand would prove tricky, but she thought it was at least doable.

Once his snores filled the air to mingle with those of his crew, she sat up. Moving quietly as she could manage, Hermione tore at the rope binding her ankles. Luckily, they were neither fisherman nor _sailors_ , and the knot was difficult, but not completely unmanageable.

Her ankles unbound, she felt a rush of adrenaline, but tried to keep the giddy jitteriness which accompanied it at bay. This was no time for anxiety. Yesterday, when she'd wished to be back in the thick of her own more exciting-than-paperwork personal history, this wasn't the sort of thing she'd had in mind.

Climbing to her feet, she moved on carefully placed footfalls to where the leader rested. Her fingers felt icy and her gut clenched, the weight of the very air around her seeming to press down on her as she lowered to one knee. Throat suddenly dry, breath held, she reached out, delicately slipping her hand into the opening of the pack, just below the sleeping man's head.

Just as she fought her anxiety, she fought a useless, distracting wave of relief as her fingers closed around the end of her wand. She didn't have a full grasp on it, but she was in contact, that was enough. Muttering a reversal charm, she watched as the knot at her wrists unwound itself and the ropes fell away.

Yet the sound of them hitting the damp, thick sand was not as muffled as she'd hoped—it was perhaps the noisiest part of her entire escape attempt thus far—and the man stirred. Wincing, her hand still in the pack, she toward his face.

His eyes were open. He opened his mouth to shout as he reached for the sword at his hip. Hermione fell backward, her wand clasped in her hand as it came free of the pack, and she launched her foot toward his face. Her heel connected hard with his jaw, silencing him. He was still conscious, if disoriented a moment, still pulling his blade from its scabbard.

" _Petrificus Totalis_ ," she hissed out in a shouting whisper.

He stilled, and she quickly turned where she lay, aiming the same spell at his sleeping companions. She couldn't kill them. Partly because she wasn't a killer, except in self-defense, and while they had taken her captive, they hadn't really harmed her or done anything nefarious while she'd been unconscious—she had undisturbed clothing and an ache-free, aside from her headache, body to attest to that. Partly because she didn't know if they were part of some larger group and that others might not come looking for them. A mystery girl who'd simply escaped captivity was less worthy of pursuit than a mystery girl who'd murdered one's fellows. Granted, the magic she'd just used on them might raise her worthiness on that, but then it might also make the idea of going after her seem just dangerous enough to not bother.

There was a cold weight against her chest and she glanced down. The silver wolf stared up at her, glinting clear under the moonlight overhead. They hadn't taken it? Frowning, she wrapped her free hand around the chain and tugged. She had wanted to keep it with her, but after their reaction to the sight of it, she thought keeping it visible was probably not the best idea. Yet, the chain held tight. Okay, sturdy. Her frown deepening, she tried to pull it off over her head, but suddenly the chain behaved as though it was simply too short to make it up over her chin or nose.

Letting it fall back into place, she measured the chain's length with her fingers. It should certainly be long enough to get over her facial features—it _was_ the same way she'd put it on, after all, by simply dropping it over her head. The only possible answer was that it was spelled. Bewitched, these men would probably say. Fantastic. Oh, well, she could hardly waste time sitting around here trying to remove a seemingly irremovable necklace. She settled for concealing it inside her shirt.

Climbing to her feet, she looked about the hastily assembled campsite. Alone with their incapacitated bodies now, she took their weapons from them, tossing them into the water, stoked the flames in the pit so they'd not freeze to death during the night whilst unable to move for the sake of warming themselves. One _Levicorpus_ later, the leader was settled around the fire with his men.

There, she'd been as merciful as she had time for—and certainly more than they probably deserved. Returning to where he'd originally lain, she hefted up his pack and checked its contents. Canteen, good, change of clothing . . . . She kept the tunic, but tossed the trousers, way too big for her. Her trainers were hardly ideal for the environment she eyed across the water, but her captors feet were all too big for her to steal anyone's boots. A hunting knife—probably a spare blade, as she imagined that aside from his sword, he likely had a knife hidden somewhere on his person within easy reach.

Buried at the bottom was a leather pouch heavy with coins. Well, that was helpful, as she imagined even if she'd had any Wizarding money with her—she'd literally planned to drop by the Malfoys and then return home to crawl back in bed, so she'd carried nothing but her wand with her—it would be more of a shiny curiosity here than valued as currency. Unable to help herself, she opened the pouch, eager to get a look at the coins, hopeful they might tell her something.

Hermione vaguely recognized it from some home-schooling history lessons her parents had seen to providing as a supplement to her formal education before she'd received her Hogwarts letter. She didn't know the names on it, but it looked like a ducat. So this _was_ the Middle Ages. That only made her more puzzled. She dropped the coin back into the pouch and replaced it in the bottom of the pack. Portkeys only traveled in distance, not time, so how on earth had Lucius Malfoy pulled this off? And why had he done this in the first place?

Aware she could've pick-pocketed each of them, she decided to leave them whatever else they had, instead sticking to her original plan. The cloak secured around her shoulders, and the pack stocked with as much of the food they'd brought with them as it could carry without becoming cumbersome, she approached the horses.

Those petrification charms would wear off eventually, after all.

* * *

Staring out across the water toward the ashlands, he frowned. It was just near enough that he could see the dusky grey landscape in the darkness. Just far enough that the light of a fire on the distant shore looked like a smudge dot of flickering orange, and a boat shored nearby made for a larger, darker dot of indeterminate color.

What the hell could possibly . . . ? A sound of rapid splashing met his ears and Geralt turned his head toward it. A horse galloped through the water where the river bowed some distance to his right. If he didn't know any better, he'd think the rider didn't have complete control of the beast, though they leaned close to the neck, braced against the wind and speed of the animal's hoofbeats, so they weren't a complete novice.

Whoever they were, they were fleeing Lower Aedirn as though a host of demons followed in their wake. Looking back toward the smudgy orange dot, he thought he had an idea of what was going on. Clearing the waters of the Dyfne, the rider reined the horse to a halt and hopped down. Removing its tackle, they tossed aside the bridle and saddle before feeding it something from their pack.

Sparing a moment to look back toward the ashy shore across the water, the figure bolted into the nearby treeline. Clearly they were soft-hearted, as they were trying to let the animal free. He had sudden misgivings about how far the person was going to make it through the forest on their own, were that the case.

The ashlands. Some reason he needed to be here. Strange, unnatural creatures roaming the wilds. And now _this_.

"Fuck," he said for the second time that night and started off toward the last place he'd seen the mysterious rider.

At least, it seemed, he was getting a new horse out of this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Hermione slowed to a halt, leaning against the nearest tree. Now that she was under the cover of the forest canopy, her captors far behind her even if the petrification charms had worn off, her energy was dwindling. Fast. The back of her head was still aching, so much so that it made the skin on her shoulders crawl and her empty stomach churn. She wanted to sink down right here and sleep, but she knew she couldn't. She wanted to eat some of the food she'd snatched to ease her nausea, yet she knew she shouldn't. There was a chance she had a concussion, and she knew either action could be risky right now. The first because she could slip into a coma out here with no one to find her, the second because she imagined retching her guts out if the food came back up would take yet more of her waning energy than she had left to spend right now.

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Maybe if she narrowed down the possibility of this being such a traumatic head injury, that would help? Yes, she thought, swallowing hard as she pushed away from the tree and started forward once more on plodding steps. The animals of the forest clearly knew a foreign element—namely _her_ —was nearby, because the woodlands were hushed, aside from breezes rustling through leaves here and there. There was one thing the Horcrux Hunt all those years ago had taught her, and that was that forests were never truly quiet, even at night.

 _Okay_ , her inner voice started, _time for another checklist._

Headache? Check, however, she had taken a blow to the back of the head hard enough to knock her unconscious, so the superficial aspect of the injury, itself, could be reason alone for the pain without a more lasting trauma having resulted from it, which also answered the question of loss of consciousness.

A twig snapped beneath her foot and she winced, pausing mid-stride. Again her skin crawled, this time with apprehension, as she looked around. After a few moments, it seemed nothing came from the sound and she permitted herself to relax enough to keep moving.

There was no memory loss surrounding the head injury. The witch nodded, that was a good thing. Concussion sufferers often could not recall the first few minutes—at least—leading up to receiving said injury. She'd awoken with those events fresh in her mind.

No dizziness, nor stars behind her eyes. No ringing in her ears; in fact, she could hear clear as a bell. All pluses. Slurred speech? She hadn't really spoken other than to cast those charms, so she couldn't be sure on that one.

Perhaps she should test herself for that particular symptom?

"I don't know where I am, or how I got here—not _precisely_ how, anyway. I don't know what sort of devilish Dark Art that pompous arse Lucius Malfoy used to send me here, I mean. Nothing about this place feels quite right, but I do know if . . . when, _when_ I get back he'll be the first ever victim of a Hermione Granger _Avada Kedavra_ should he dare to show his face _anywhere_ near me." No slurring, good.

Confusion? She knew precisely who she was, and while she didn't have an idea _where_ she was; were she confused in a way that was cause for concern, she likely would not be able to plan or compile checklists. No sensation of fogginess . . . everything was clear, just exhausting. She wasn't in a daze. She didn't think she was having any delay in processing information, but as it was only her out here alone with no one to run any sort of double-check with her, she thought perhaps it best to not check that one off the list _just_ yet.

She couldn't be certain if the nausea she felt was on account of a head trauma or simply the combination of pain and an empty stomach. Though, she wasn't dry-heaving, so logic dictated that vomiting be crossed off the list. That was another plus.

Fatigue? That one was tricky. Especially _now_ , as she paused again, nearly stumbling over her own two feet as she stepped sideways to rest against another tree. She was certainly fatigued, she considered as she forced a deep breath, trying to will a jolt of energy into her body, but there was every chance that was simply the exhaustion of everything she'd been through in the last half-day.

God, had it really only been so short a time since she'd knocked on the door of Malfoy Manor?

Closing her eyes, she pressed her forehead against the rough, cool bark. She was no longer so certain that she could keep moving, no matter how much she thought she should.

Hermione forced herself to push away from the tree. As she started forward again, she was overcome by a sudden, strange stillness in the air. She drew in a breath and let it out slow, turning her head by increments to look about.

The witch heard the creature before her gaze found its. A deep, threatening rumble that caused her gut to clench and her pulse to beat frantically beneath her skin met her ears.

There it lay to her right, under the protective spread of a fallen elder tree's branches. Amber eyes gleaming in the sparse illumination from the moon and stars, the wolf sported a thick white coat that made the creature more visible against the backdrop of the tree.

Made the small, dark patch of slickness along its side more obvious.

"Oh, you're hurt," she murmured, trying not to startle it. She moved to draw her wand, but the wolf growled again. Slowing her movements further, still, she kept on speaking, low and steady, her exhaustion strangely stalled in the face of this strained situation. The thing had crowded itself back against the leafy branches. It must've dragged its body out from beneath the tree's weight and then . . . and then simply hadn't the capability to run away. "I want to move this back from you so I can come closer and get a better look at your wound, but . . . I think you're probably hungry, too." She gulped. "And scared."

Deciding to change tacks now that she realized that, she lowered carefully to one knee, pulling the bag she'd stolen from her shoulder. "I noticed your pack is nowhere to be seen. I'm going to guess they were forced to leave you. That tree falling caught you lot off-guard, yeah? They left because they thought you were done for, that they hadn't a choice."

Easing open the pack, she extracted from her stolen food a bit of jerky and an apple—she thought she'd read somewhere that aside from hunting fresh game, wolves would eat fruits, vegetables, and even berries and nuts when prey was scarce. "Here . . . ." Inching her way toward the wolf, she moved carefully, the food held out before her. The witch's fingers trembled a bit, though she could not be certain if that was fear or exhaustion at work. Probably a little of both.

The wolf snapped at her approach and she forced herself not to jump at the sound, but she could see the way its coat shook along its shoulders. If she didn't act fast, the poor animal would not survive long.

Getting as near as she dared, she lightly tossed the food so that it landed within reach of the wolf's paws. And held her breath.

Immediately, the beast pulled the meat along the ground to catch it between sharp, white teeth. Hermione watched it concentrate on chewing, her heart in her throat. Only after reminding herself that there was no air in her lungs did she manage to start breathing again, inhaling deep and quiet, exhaling just as low.

She went on in that calm, soothing tone she'd been trying for—as much for the wolf to feel secure that it could keep a gauge on her location without turning its attention away from the food as for herself. "I studied wolves, you know. Not . . . not for the sake of wolves, themselves, but I . . . I had a friend who was a werewolf, if you can believe that." Hiding her arms behind her back so the movement would be less likely to startle the wolf if the animal did glance up at her, she at last drew her wand from its holster. "But one of the things I know of wolves is they do no typically leave their ill or wounded behind. They do not abandon their own. Not if they've a choice about it . . . ."

* * *

He halted at the woman's voice.

When he'd followed that mysterious person into the forest, he'd not really known what to expect. He'd retrieved the horse's gear and tacked him up once more before leading him in through the tree line and tying him off safely out of sight of any potential passersby. Not that he'd expected anyone else to happen along so near to the woods in the dead of night, but he was here, wasn't he? As was the cloaked figure, so he supposed another person just randomly wandering about wouldn't be so _un_ expected, after all.

A short way in, the tracks seemed to shuffle a bit, as though they were struggling to keep going. That was when he realized he was catching up. And then she spoke, her voice stopping him.

No, that wasn't correct. It wasn't her voice, it was something she'd said _. "I had a friend who was a werewolf, if you can believe that."_ As he'd approached the sound of movement, he hadn't heard anyone else, but he _had_ heard a very distinct growl.

Was she talking to a wolf? A _wounded_ wolf? She was either brave or stupid. His luck? Probably both. But then, she said she had a friend who was a werewolf? Was such a thing even possible without being something . . . potentially monstrous, herself?

He reached for his sword, deciding it was probably best he not wait to arm himself.

" _But one of the things I know of wolves is they do no typically leave their ill or wounded behind. They do not abandon their own. Not if they've a choice about it . . . ._ _You've lost your pack? That's me, as well. I think."_

Geralt's fingers slipped from the hilt, leaving his weapon sheathed.

" _Now just a moment."_ She murmured something he didn't quite catch. Her voice lowered, as though focusing on something as she went on. He was careful with his footfalls while he inched around the base of a wide tree that separated them, moving silently. " _What was I saying? Oh, yes. No idea where I am, but I aim to get home, of course. However, maybe if . . . . Bloody hell, you can't understand me, anyway, why am I trying?"_

Clearing the tree, the Witcher stalled his steps again. The woman had her back to him, one arm raised and a slender shaft of polished wood clenched in her fingers. With the movement of her hand, she was directing a fallen tree across the forest floor. The tree slid in shuddering movements and settled, clear of the wolf.

"Now," she went on in that low tone, walking toward the animal at a cautious pace. "I know once I've helped you, you'll probably be off and running to find your pack, but . . . ." The wolf didn't move, eyeing her suspiciously as a sound of warning rumbled out of its chest. Despite the defensive noise, it did not snap at the woman nor make any aggressive motion toward her as she knelt beside it. "But if you don't think you can find them, well, maybe you and I could travel together?"

She moved the bit of wood along the animal's bleeding flank. He couldn't see her face, but the way she bowed her head was obvious. "I learned this from my old potion's professor. No one knew, but before we 'thought' he'd gone Dark, he taught me some of the spells he'd created."

Spells? So . . . she was some sort of mage? Geralt supposed that made sense, as what he'd seen her do with that tree would only be possible using magic.

"I think he expected he wouldn't survive the War. He wanted his spells to live on and he knew that wouldn't happen if he was the only one to master them. With everything I was was known to have done, he must've guessed there were loads of things that were unknown—things I'd take to my grave—and so he trusted I could keep a secret. And I did. Uh, until just now, I suppose." The blood began to move unnaturally, retracting up through the pale fur and filling back into the wound. "This is a special sort of healing spell, sort of more a reversal of an injury than simply closing the skin. Well, for internal and external bleeding, anyway. Let's just hope nothing is broken."

The wolf's eyes seemed to sharpen now that it was partially healed, and it snapped its attention past the woman's shoulder. Geralt's brows shot up to find the creature's gaze locked on him. He'd deliberately not moved a muscle all the while as he'd watched them. It seemed that just the first few moments of that injury-reversal she'd mentioned had done enough that it restored the wolf's faculties, as well.

Her brow furrowing, Hermione glanced over her shoulder, following the wolf's line of sight.

A pale-haired man in black stood a few yards away. And he was staring at the wolf. Immediately she turned, her wand trained on him.

She doubted he was here for anything so simple as hunting a wolf, but that sword strapped to his back certainly screamed _hunter_. Or mercenary. She had been sent here after being told she was like a wolf, herself, only to encounter such a creature in need of her aid. Maybe this was fate that she be here now to protect it.

Maybe that was what the necklace meant? Perhaps the animal was special, somehow.

"You want this wolf, you'll have to go through me," she said, her voice just as threatening as the growl of the animal she shielded.

The way she stood . . . . The moonlight glinted off the medallion that hung from her neck. Geralt's breath locked in his chest as his gaze traced over the profile of the silver wolf. _What?_

 _Fuck._ More of this fate rubbish, he supposed.

He held up his hands in a gesture of placation, which was distinctly different from surrender, and stepped closer. "I have not come for the wolf."

His voice was so deep it set off a series of little curling tendrils across the small of her back. Swallowing hard, Hermione stood her ground. The wolf behind her hadn't moved, but kept up a low, steady growl at the intruder.

"Then what is it you're . . . ?" Her words trailed off as he moved near enough that she could see his features . . . that she could see his _coloring._ The silvery-white hair and gold eyes—she was entirely ignoring the chiseled lines of his jaw and cheek bones and the impressive breadth of his shoulders—brought to mind the white- _gold_ hair and _silvery_ -grey eyes of the wizard who'd sent her here, as though this strange man before her was somehow the reverse of a—"Malfoy?"

"Malfoy?" His brows pinched together, tone confused, as he echoed the word in that impossible timbre of his. "That name is unknown to me. I am Geralt of Rivia."

She recognized that he enunciated his name as one would when they thought the listener had probably heard of them before, even while she noted that had he intended her harm, he'd have come at her with his sword drawn. His somewhat passive approach lessened the likelihood that he was one of that larger company she suspected might be connected to her captors.

She had trouble getting her throat to work and she squeaked out unevenly, "Geralt of Rivia? Uh . . . I suppose that makes me . . . Hermione of London."

The unsteadiness of her voice caused the loss of a few syllables. "Mione of London?" he asked, nodding, as though trying to coax a would-be jumper down from a ledge.

Her eyes rolled and she scowled. "No, Her—" She noticed the necklace he wore. The necklace with the wolf. Just like hers. " _Her_ mione," she emphasized, her tone hollow suddenly and her heart feeling as though it might stop in her chest at any second.

 _G_ eralt of _R_ ivia . . . _M_ ione of _L_ ondon . . . . _GR_ and _ML_ . . . like the mysterious root pairing she'd seen at the base of the Malfoy family tree.

Her shoulders drooped and she let her wand arm fall to her side—she was too distracted to notice the wolf stopped growling the moment she dropped her guard—as she stared up at him. "Fuck."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did this story get 273 reviews on FFN, and 276 kudos/85 bookmarks on Ao3, when it only had 3 chapters? You folks are AMAZING! I can't thank you enough for the love!

**Chapter Four**

She eyed the fire, wary, as he hunkered down before the flames. The wolf had yet to leave, seeming either to feel a sense of kinship with the witch who'd rescued it, or to be curious of the stranger with hair as snowy as the creature's own fur—and possibly eyes that were the same feral shading of gold. Hermione couldn't quite be certain, as she hadn't really gotten a look at the wolf's eyes, but she'd seen eyes like Geralt of Rivia's on werewolves giving themselves over to the full moon's sway.

Hermione wasn't even entirely certain what had transpired after she'd dropped that choice expletive, but the man's silver brows drew together and he nodded, his expression somewhere between grim and . . . sympathetic, she thought? He might not've understood the reason behind her muttered curse, but he understood the feeling that had accompanied the word obviously enough.

His hands still up in that passive gesture of assurance, he jutted his chin toward the open space behind her—she'd inadvertently created a small clearing by moving that tree. "Perhaps we should get a fire going?"

She backpedaled half a step, completely uncertain of his motivation in suggesting such a thing. "Why?"

Somehow his brows managed to press together tighter still, creating for a dubious expression. Was she daft or simply untrusting? Well, were it the later, he couldn't say he blamed her—he was, after all, a big, scary monster hunter and she was a magic-wielder. Those things did not often peacefully coexist, a fact to which his own personal history stood as testament. Some days it had been nothing short of a miracle that he and Yennefer had survived each other.

"You're shivering and from the look of you, I doubt you'd make it to the nearest village before you lose what's left of your strength and collapse."

Hermione felt her features pinch at his bluntness. He wasn't wrong, but still he was, well, blunt about it. And then, without waiting for further response from her, and clearly mindful of the wolf who still glared at him as though he were personally responsible for that tree falling, he went about gathering up kindling.

She . . . supposed perhaps he was useful to have around. For the time being. Her wounded and exhausted condition might've caused her to go into something of a daze for a few moments—which was decidedly fortunate, as watching him move about in the moonlight-dappled forest was bound to give _anyone_ a certain appreciation for his stature—because the next thing she knew, he'd dug out a shallow bit of earth and dumped in the kindling.

She was rather sure she watched, oddly unfeeling, as he lined the small pit with stones and struck a piece of flint—had he drawn that from a pocket on his leather pants, or from the visibly-hefty pack at his side? She had no idea, despite her now unabashed observation of his actions and movements—sparking the kindling to a small blaze.

Then he'd sat down while Hermione and the wolf remained unmoving. She couldn't seem to will her body into motion, not to move closer to the warmth of the fire, nor to possibly run away from this man. Perhaps because most of her energy—the last vestiges of which she knew were sputtering out as it was—was consumed with trying to tell herself she was wrong. There was _no way_ the initials in that book could be theirs.

No more than a coincidence.

When she continued seeming determined to not so much as blink, he shrugged and turned his attention to the flames. "I've honestly no interest in harming you or that wolf, if that's your concern."

Hermione only continued to watch him for a time.

He thought he could feel the press of her gaze on him as though it had weight. Setting his jaw, Geralt gave a small, determined shake of his head. "You've no idea who I am, do you?" He wasn't sure he'd come across anyone who'd seen him, glimpsed his medallion, and had not instantly connected his name, or some story—true or fabricated—to his face.

"No." She looked a little startled by the question. "Should I have?"

Arching a brow, he gave a slow shake of his head. "If that's your answer, then I suppose not."

"Do you always converse so cryptically?" she couldn't help the question. What was the point of asking if she'd heard of him if he wasn't going to explain _why_ she should have heard of him?

Those unfortunately broad shoulders of his moved in a shrug. "Unless I have something of importance to say."

The witch could feel her features pull into an exasperated expression. Hating herself for not having the strength to storm away in a huff, she carefully stepped toward the fire, instead. Settling across from him, she tried not to be pleased when the wolf inched closer to her, yet kept a wary distance from the man and the small pool of flames.

"So," she began, completely ignoring a loud yawn she unleashed right after the word— _and_ ignoring the way he unsuccessfully hid a smirk at the sound, "who are you?"

"Geralt of Rivia," he repeated in exactly the way he'd said it earlier.

Oh, Hermione wished she had the strength to throw something at him. She could tell from his tone that he found himself amusing. "I'm not thick, you know. I _do_ remember your name."

An expression flicked across his face—one which clearly said the thought that she might be _had_ entered his mind—but he remained silent.

"I mean why do you assume I should've heard of you? What's so special about you, Geralt of Rivia?" _Aside from your looks_ , she thought, feeling more than a little chagrined by how distracting she found his appearance.

"I'm a witcher." He looked up from the fire then, clearly waiting to see her reaction.

Her brows drew upward, yet her expression remained blank.

This lured a response from him. "How are you wearing _that_ without knowing what a witcher is?" he asked, pointing toward her chest.

Following his indication, she glanced at her own wolf medallion. "This? I have no idea what this necklace is!"

"Then _why_ are you wearing it?"

That latest question of his came out gruff, which she imagined was something of a feat given how gruff his voice already was. She pulled back a little where she sat, aware of her wolf inching closer still at her reaction.

"I don't expect you to understand this, but it brought me here. I thought it best to keep it close." She tugged at the chain ruefully. "And then it . . . got stuck."

"It what?"

"Magic, can we leave it at that? It brought me here through a magic which no longer works, but if I'm to get back to—to where I'm from, then I might need it to make that magic work again."

"From what I've seen of magic, that actually makes sense." Though the way he grumbled the words, she thought perhaps he hadn't wanted it to make sense.

Maybe that would've made it easier to keep believing she was simply a moron.

"So, then?" she inquired, pulling off her pack and setting it on the ground. Hermione spared a moment to get as comfortable as the unforgiving forest floor would permit and pillowed her head on the nearly as unforgiving bag. "Tell me, Geralt of Rivia, what _is_ a witcher?"

He pursed his lips, staring at her through the flames for a long moment before opening his mouth to respond. After hearing her talk of having a friend who was a werewolf, he though it best he not be blunt just now—she hadn't eased up her grip on that magic weapon of hers. "Someone who hunts evil things."

"Does that mean I can trust you not to kill me in my sleep?"

He nearly chuckled at her directness. "Depends. Are you evil?"

"Would I have saved the wolf if I was?"

Those gold eyes darted toward the animal, who was now nearly beside her. He thought in the morning he'd wake to find the beast curled protectively around her. "Perhaps, perhaps not."

"Well, I'm not." She let out another noisy yawn.

"You always lurk about the woods at night?"

Hermione laughed quietly at that. She had, actually, more frequently in her life than she often liked to think about. "Actually, yes. Are you asking for a specific reason why I was doing it when you found me?"

That brow flicked upward as he nodded.

With a sigh, she explained to him what had happened after she'd . . . _found_ her way to this place. When she was finished, she arched a brow right back, mimicking his expression. "And what were _you_ doing, lurking about the woods at night?"

His frame sloped a little, giving him a sudden air of exhaustion. "Apparently following fate?"

She looked positively troubled by this response.

Gold eyes rolling, he clarified, "A sorceress told me I needed to be here. And _here_ is where I saw you stumbling into the trees."

"Ah." Well, it certainly wasn't the oddest thing she'd ever heard.

Geralt did not like what she'd observed of her captors. "Fuck," he said in a hiss after a moment's consideration. "These men, you said they seemed prepared for a long journey?"

She nodded against pack. "I thought perhaps they were sent to search for something. They certainly had the supplies for it. And . . . it's not my imagination, is it? It's not just that part near the river; there's no vegetation or wildlife in that land, is there?"

A long breath escaped his nostrils. "No, it's not your imagination. I'm going to guess you've not heard of Nilfgaard." She had no idea what a witcher was, and had gotten here 'by magic,' didn't know the history of Lower Aedirn, so it was not a stretch to guess that she'd never heard of that vile nation, either. "Their power is no more, but when they had been powerful, they were terrifying."

Hermione repressed the urge to shiver. He spoke of this Nilfgaard in a tone low and caustic. She picked up, however, that he wasn't speaking of terror _he'd_ felt—he struck her as one who did not often feel fear—no, he was speaking of things they'd done too horrific to allow them to be described otherwise.

"Their troops razed the land, burnt every last settlement and village to ash so that nothing could ever again grow there."

"Like bloody Carthage," she whispered.

His brow furrowed in question.

The witch shook her head. "Never mind."

At his continued look of puzzlement over what her former captors might be up to—which seemed to grow darker and more suspicious with every passing moment—she couldn't help but ask, "So, if there's nothing there, what are those men searching for?"

Again, his frame sloped and she wondered how much more _sloping_ it would take before he actually just gave into lying down, as she was. "I think that's what I'm here to discover. Or stop."

"And part of that involved finding me, you think? Am I supposed to take this journey with you?" She knew he understood her meaning—that she might find her way home in whatever they discovered out there, in the ashlands of Lower Aedirn.

"Hermione of London," he said, his tone a bit curt. "There are two things I have learned in this life, both which have vexed me greatly. The first is that when a sorceress tells you to do something, it's best to listen. The second . . . is that those connected by fate will always find each other."

Her features tightened in a look that was somewhere between disbelief and irritation. "I don't believe in fate."

Unfazed, he nodded, his attention shifting back to the fire. "That's wise. No one should believe anything until they've seen proof of it."

Feeling the conversation had ground to a halt with those words, she closed her eyes. She'd battled her exhaustion long enough.

"You'd better still be safe when I get back, Ciri," he murmured, the words clearly meant for his own ears.

Yet, in her half-asleep state, Hermione had no sense of boundaries. "Who's Ciri?" From the tone he'd used, she guessed, "Your daughter?"

He smirked and shook his head. "I must remember you don't know anything about witchers. But, I suppose, yes, in a manner of speaking."

She forced open her eyes, looking at him once more. "What's that mean?"

"Witchers are unable to father children," he said, in an almost disturbingly matter-of-fact way.

"Oh, and you're at peace with that?"

He frowned at her. How could it possibly matter if he was 'at peace' with it? It simply _was_. This Hermione was a strange woman. "Of course. Now rest. You need it."

She forced a quiet gulp down her throat, relieved. This was proof that there was no way _they_ could be at the root of a family line—insufferable pure-bloods or otherwise. Comforted by the dismissal of that wild notion, she found herself drifting off.

She watched him across the flames in a daze of one falling into sleep as he pulled a book from that hefty pack of his. The way he flipped open the cover before extracting a writing implement offered her a look at the front, at the spine.

It was the book she'd touched in the Malfoy Manor family archives.

Her body was so worn out, however, that even the thrill of alarm that coursed through her at the notice did nothing to stop her from sinking further into the black of sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Light pressed against the backs of her eyelids as she reluctantly let herself realize she was awake. She half expected to open her eyes and find herself alone in this unfamiliar forest. Her head hurt less, blessedly, but her body ached something fierce from a night's rest on the bare, unforgiving forest floor.

Uttering a grumble of discomfort in the back of her throat—getting up, moving about, that would ease some of the aches—she reached a hand toward the ground to push herself up. Her fingers brushed fur and she snatched back her hand. Cautious, she at last opened her eyes.

Sometime during the night, her rescued wolf had crept closer. The witch imagined the action felt safe when both humans had been sleeping, which was why she also imagined that the creature would've slunk off to a distance, again, once she'd started to stir. Instead, the wolf stayed where it was, curled up within easy reach and staring back at her.

"You're still here," she said in a shocked whisper, smiling.

A sound of movement—a shuffling or rustling, she couldn't be certain—drew her attention toward where the fire had blazed last night. There _he_ stood. She hated that his rugged prettiness was even more unavoidable by daylight. That was going to get annoying.

She felt her smile fade, but her expression was no less surprised; she'd thought that perhaps once the night had passed, he'd have rethought this traveling together idea and left. "And _you're_ still here." The beast standing at his shoulder came into focus for her, then. Hermione arched a brow. "And the horse is still here . . . ?"

He hid that her confusion amused him. No, she didn't seem the sort to take being laughed at first thing in the morning very well. "We're going to need him. Lower Aedirn isn't exactly a small area."

"So, that _is_ our plan, then?" She sat up, her movements delicate on account of her screaming muscles and joints. "We're just going to go off into the—what did you call them? Oh, right—the 'ashlands' and simply, what? Wander about until we trip over something one of us deems important or useful?"

His features remained schooled as he said in that usual gruff tone of his, "If you didn't state it flippantly like that, it would not _sound_ flippant."

Hermione blinked slow once, twice, as she held his gaze. God, he _sounded_ unnervingly like Lucius Malfoy in that moment. It wasn't his voice, exactly, it was something in the cadence.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, she climbed to her feet. "Fine, you're right, it just . . . doesn't seem like much of a plan. Do we know what we're looking for?"

"Your captors, for a start. Barring that?" Geralt squared his jaw. "I crossed paths with an unnatural creature, the like of which I've never encountered before—which says much as to how troubling a circumstance that is. I think whatever we hope to find in the ashlands might be connected."

The witch folded her lips and nodded. "So, my captors or some bizarre animals, then?"

Those gold eyes narrowed. "Yes."

She sighed, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. "All right, all right. I can see you're in a mood . . . . Or you _are_ a mood, but—" She hurried on, deliberately ignoring how his already less-than-happy expression soured further—"if you're right and there's no flora or fauna there, then we need to do what 'my captors' did and stock up on supplies, don't we? That, and I need to get something else to wear, something that doesn't make me stand out quite so much. Maybe stop at a tavern or pub before we're off to have a meal? I haven't eaten in a full day, now that I think about."

His brows inched upward as he looked back at her. She was already ticking errands off on her fingers.

"Let's see, that'll mean finding . . . obviously a seamstress, a butcher or maybe a charcutier, definitely a market." She looked down at her feet. "Oh, and a . . . what was that word, oh, right! A cordwainer!" It seemed fortunate that her trainers were so caked with mud and forest debris that they were no longer discernible as a style of shoe that simply didn't exist here, but camouflaged or not, there were _not_ ideal for the environment.

Mouth pulling to one side, he only continued to stare at her. He'd never heard anyone so thrilled about requiring the services of a shoemaker before in his life. "Because I'm certain the seamstress won't have any questions about your current attire?"

"Hang on, I have something for that . . . sort of." Stooping to rummage about in her pack, she produced the nicked tunic. "I'll wear this for now, it'll be long enough to cover the more telling portions of my jeans—"

"Your what?"

"Trousers."

"Ah."

Hermione stood again and seemed about to say something. But then she thought better on asking him to turn around. "You know what? Never mind, I'll just . . . Holly Golightly this." Of course he wouldn't understand a reference to _Breakfast at Tiffany's—_ she wistfully wondered if she'd ever get the chance to watch another Audrey Hepburn film, she wasn't much for sitting about watching films, yet she adored Audrey—but she imagined he'd be resistant to her request for _him_ to turn around, as he probably didn't trust her not to try running off, or hexing him.

Not that she was particularly at ease with the notion of being in any state of undress around him—but that was another matter entirely which had little to do with nerves—but she could guess she didn't have anything he hadn't seen before. Probably _many_ times, too, if other women were as affected by his looks as she was.

Geralt shook his head, but sooner than he could ask what the bloody hell a 'holly-go-lightly' was, she put her back to him. She whipped her shirt off over her voluminous hair and dropped it atop the pack. His brows drew upward, but he remained silent, his lower lip poking outward in thought.

"Oh, suppose I can do without this thing, now," she grumbled to herself as she unhooked her bra and dropped it onto the pack, as well. She had to stop herself from letting out an ecstatic sound, or curling forward in relief—she hadn't even realized how long she'd been wearing the bloody thing until she'd taken it off just now.

He only watched the strange, satiny white thing drop from her hand. Perhaps he was waiting for her to do something that _didn't_ add to the number of questions running about in his head.

He'd start small. His gaze was drawn to the strange purple slash marring her skin in a diagonal line from her shoulder straight down to her opposite hip. "That's a bizarre mark. A scar?"

She froze, the tunic bunched on her arms, held over her head. After drawing a breath, she let the rough fabric fall down over her. Pulling her hair from her the collar, she focused on straightening the garment.

"It's, um, a from a spell that was meant to kill me, but didn't."

If she was waiting for some response, he had none. He had more than a scar or two of his own from things meant to kill him.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, her gaze guarded in a way it hadn't been a moment earlier. Turning to face him, she lifted the front of the tunic, only to just beneath her ribs, high enough that he caught a glimpse of the same mark starting from the top of her strange trousers and slashing upward and across to disappear beneath where she held the fabric. "It was a . . . special spell, only known to its creator. Cut through me. I was a mess, on all manner of potions to help me heal. It killed my friend, but left no mark on him, so the assumption was made that it only marks those who survive it."

Actually, she felt more like the scar was a purposeful reminder that the spell could've very easily taken her life—that others _had_ lost their lives to it.

It was a burden. When she'd learned Remus had been killed by the spell that hadn't killed her, the scar felt like a weight around her. Pulling her down. Asking her, murmuring in her ear, why had _she_ survived, but not him? Why had fate decided he couldn't live on to return home to his son, but she could live to do what? Help Harry win the war? And _then_ what?

Nothing. She supposed maybe her life had already served its purpose, then. So what the bloody hell was she even doing here?

"I don't like to talk about it," she offered as she once more smoothed the tunic down over herself, her voice a bit strained, hoping he'd take the very large, very blatant hint not to pry. Of course, she realized in hindsight that she'd just babbled an awful lot about a subject she claimed she didn't wish to discuss.

That was the problem in being forced into close company with a stranger. The things one usually kept to themselves around familiar faces tended to bubble to the surface of their own accord.

"Anyway . . . ." She gave herself a shake and started burrowing through her pack, again. After tucking away the garments she'd removed, she produced a leather pouch. Hermione hesitated, visibly, before holding it out to him. "I am trusting you with this. I don't know that's much of a compliment, as I don't know anything about this place, so I wouldn't know what anything is actually worth or if someone is trying to swindle me, so . . . take it."

Arching a brow, Geralt accepted the pouch. It was quite a bit heavier than it appeared, and he knew what it contained the moment the weight hit his palm.

"This is rather a lot of coin for someone new to the realm."

The witch shrugged and looked away, her expression a strange mix of righteous and abashed. "Nicked it from my captors."

He gave a sideways nod as he opened the pouch and peered inside, estimating the contents. "Would seem to serve them right, kidnapping mysterious young women and all that."

Deliberately refraining from smiling at his quip—this had to remain neutral, if such a thing were possible, so she didn't get too used to him. There were about to journey together for who knew how long, but she was going home at some point. For all she knew? The mysterious _GR_ was someone else, entirely—since he'd admitted himself incapable of fathering a child—and she came into possession of Geralt's book for . . . for reasons she wouldn't think on at the moment, as she didn't imagine he'd part with it easily.

Of course, that also meant she was accepting that the _ML_ was, indeed, 'Mione of London. Oh, this was too much before . . . before . . . oh dear Lord, they probably didn't even have coffee or tea here.

She was going to die in this accursed place.

The witch collected herself. "I didn't expect to just spit a bunch of expenses at you and have you pay for it all. We are both going to be using the travel supplies, after all."

He nodded, his features once more settled into that already familiar mask that might be boredom, might be stoicism, who could tell? "Very well. And . . . about your wolf?"

"Right." Wincing, she dug in her pack for some of the pilfered jerky and tossed it to the beast. It hadn't really budged since getting to its feet when she had stood; it seemed happy to stay far away from the witcher. "I don't suppose people walk through towns with pet wolves?"

His mouth pinched and the slightly offset bridge of his nose crinkled. He didn't need to offer a verbal response, that look was answer enough.

With a sigh, she shrugged. "I suppose he'll just have to wait in the woods. I can . . . I hate to do it, but I can use magic to put him to sleep for a bit. We can stash him somewhere safely hidden from any humans until we're finished and can come back for him."

"You can do that?"

Another shrug. "Normally I wouldn't even consider using magic on an innocent animal, but it won't harm him, and as he doesn't seem to want to leave me, I can't think of any other way to keep him out of danger."

Those golden eyes narrowed as earlier, his gaze locked, unmoving, on hers for a few silent heartbeats.

Hermione had to remind herself to breathe. Having his attention focused on her was a weighty, distracting thing. "What?"

He cleared his throat and gave a quick, subtle shake of his head, his mouth tugging down at the corners. "Your world and mine seem very different, is all."

She wasn't entirely pleased to translate that to _not many people here think twice about harming an innocent animal_. Though, she did find herself strangely flattered that this must give him a positive view of her. In the Wizarding world, she didn't have much opportunity to consider how others saw her. Public opinion was in her face, all the time, on account of her very prolific war record, even years later, leaving little luxury to wonder what others thought about her.

"All right, I suppose I should get this over with," she said unhappily, withdrawing her wand. "How long d' you suppose this little adventure into town will take us?"

His brows inched upward in question.

"I need to know how long the spell should last."

Geralt huffed out a low, grumbling breath as he thought it over. "Given the hefty errand list you've compiled, it may take us the better part of the day."

"All right." She could tell from his demeanor that he was not pleased with the delay in departing for the ashlands, but they both knew it was necessary. "Oh!" She smiled. "I completely forgot. There's a spell for shrinking items, so after we're done with the shopping, I'll do that with what I've already got in here and we can put whatever else we stock up on in here, too. Much more convenient for traveling, don't you think?"

He pursed his lips in thought, but sooner than he could say anything, she spun on her heel to face her wolf.

"I do apologize for this . . . I think I'll call you Romi. It's short for Romulus. When we're traveling, I'll explain it." Naming the wolf Remus would hurt too much, but naming him for the mythological Remus' brother seemed a good tribute. "I'm sorry, Romi, but I promise you'll be safe." She muttered the incantation under her breath as she waved her wand.

Geralt observed in silence as the wolf lay back down and fell dead asleep within moments. He didn't wait for her signal, he could tell when the creature was out cold. Stepping around her, he scooped up the beast and walked off toward the branches of the felled tree.

Hermione _observed in silence_ as the man in black leather strode across the clearing and stooped. The air filled with the sound of rustling leaves as he stepped on a branch, bowing it beneath his weight so he could slip Romi's unconscious form into the foliage. How she kept her head from tipping to one side as she noted, rather against her better judgement, how snug said leather was around his bum was a mystery to her.

Luckily for her, she managed to snap her attention from him and fix her gaze, instead, on the leaves that now concealed the wolf as he eased the branch back into place. He backpedaled a step to survey the effectiveness of the chosen cover before turning and walking back to her.

Just as she was beginning to wonder how long a walk it was to the nearest town, or village, or hamlet, whatever, he continued past her to the horse. She pivoted on her heel, following his movement with her eyes only to see him place his foot in the stirrup and pull himself up into the saddle.

Without any apparent second thought, he held his hand down to her.

She could only stare at his waiting fingers a moment. "I . . . I'd thought we weren't using the horse until we departed for the ashlands."

"We need to be quick if we want to make preparations, return for your wolf, _and_ be on our way before sundown."

Swallowing hard, she nodded. "Of course." _Of course_ within less than a day of knowing this man, she'd be forced to do something as awkward and _close_ as to sit in front of him in the confining space of a bloody horse's saddle.

With a sigh—and reminding herself that this sort of, well, seating arrangement was probably not all that unusual in a world where horseback riding was still a popular and convenient mode of travel, so it would likely mean nothing to him and she _refused_ to be the only one flustered—she placed her hand in his. He didn't seem to strain at all lifting her into the saddle, but she staunchly ignored that as she tried to settle comfortably without moving too much against him.

"Sorry," she muttered sheepishly. "Different, um, different modes of transportation where I'm from."

Good _God_ , she could curl up and die right now that she could feel the movement of it as he shrugged behind her.

In an effort to distract herself while he nudged the horse into motion, she spat out the first words that sprang to mind. "When my captors saw the wolf pendant, they said it was 'just like the one the Butcher wears.' Did . . . did they mean you? Or is the wolf pendant something all witchers wear?"

"No." For a moment, it seemed that was all he would say. "Only witchers trained within the School of the Wolf. Due to that, I am known as the White Wolf."

"Do all witchers look like you? With the hair and the eyes, I mean?"

He snickered, the sound short and gruff, but then what was new with that second part? "No," he repeated. "I am . . . different. I was more resistant to the methods used to create our kind, and so I was subjected to more strenuous means in order for those methods to take effect. Made _me_ more, I suppose."

Perhaps the opening up to a stranger thing went both ways, then? She nodded slow, almost afraid to move too abruptly. The way he held his arms around her to clasp the reins was uncomfortably like an embrace. "And the 'Butcher' thing? I—I'm sorry, I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"If we're to travel together, you are bound to hear the name again, if not the story. I am called the Butcher of Blaviken. It was a long time ago; the short of it is that I was tricked by a mage. I tried to stay out of the matter, but he . . . he didn't care if the entire town was sacrificed to get what he wanted. A bloodbath ensued. The townspeople witnessed the entire thing, but they never knew what the mage had been up to, they never understood they'd been in danger at all. So—"

"So they only believed what they saw," she said, her voice barely a whisper above the sound of the horse's hooves against the forest floor.

He nodded, his chin brushing her hair with the movement. "Exactly. Hence, I became the Butcher of Blaviken that day, and have been every day since."

Hermione returned the nod. "Here I was worried it was something terrible."

"A bloodbath isn't terrible?" His voice was loaded with surprise, or rather as much surprise as he seemed capable of mustering up.

She shrugged, unsure if he felt the movement the way she had when he'd done it. "Circumstances make the whole story, don't they? I mean, it isn't as though that bloodbath was you 'butchering' innocent townsfolk was it?"

Geralt chuckled. "No."

"There you go."

For a moment, they were both quiet. They'd broken through the treeline and were headed toward the not-too-distant bit of civilization she thought she'd spied last night from across the water.

"Definitely from a very different place," he finally said in a hushed voice as he nudged the horse to a gallop.

Hermione hated that she had to repress a shiver at the feel of his breath ghosting warm against her ear just then. She had no idea how she was going to make it back to her _very different place_ with her sanity intact if she had to deal with Geralt of Rivia for too long.


	6. Chapter 6

Geralt was quiet as he sat across the table from her, a mug of watered wine held before his lips, hiding his expression. She seemed completely oblivious to the fact that people were watching them as she paused in eating every now and then to take a generous gulp of her cider. And, every now and then, she made a peculiar expression, muttered something to herself—possibly a disparaging comment of some sort, given her tone—and went back to her meal.

If anyone were paying close enough attention, they might think her mad.

"What is it you keep saying to yourself?" he eventually asked, one brow arched as he set down his mug.

Her gaze darted up to meet his for only a brief second—she didn't seem to like maintaining eye-contact with him for very long. He wondered if that was due to some trait of her own or if he unsettled her the way witchers unsettled most people.

Hermione shook her head, her eyes on her plate. "Just . . . the cider is a bit richer, pulpier, I suppose, than I'm used to, and the food, well, not exactly accustomed to fish so early in the day, is all." Yet, dried fish fillets and a damn hunk of bread was all the tavern'd had readily available at this time of day and her growling stomach wouldn't wait. "The way everything tastes here is a bit new to me, and it's a strange little shock of reality with every bite or sip."

Almost as if trying to prove her word, she took a sip of cider and did it again.

A half-grin curved his mouth and he gave a small head shake of his own. "Could've had the wine. Or the mead. You seem too . . . highborn to appreciate ale. Nevertheless, you are the one who chose the cider."

Her gaze shot back to his again, her chestnut eyes wide. This time, she did not immediately look away. "Highborn, _me_?" She sounded slightly aghast. Oh, if the pure-bloods back home could hear anyone call _Hermione Granger_ highborn they'd be rolling. "Why d'you say that?"

Pursing his lips, the pale-haired man straightened his posture and then sat back a bit. He merely returned her stare for a few moments before answering. She clearly grasped the term, and now—after the trip to a very confused Seamstress who seemed to forget the encounter entirely after the witch had given her wand an odd, twisting wave—she was clad in a dress of burgundy and mauve, all velvet and satin, that she moved in comfortably, giving the impression she was not unaccustomed to such flowing garments. There was a clear difference in how she maneuvered herself in the sweeping folds of fabric and the way a commoner moved in something of lesser quality—sturdy, and not nearly as fine, designed to stand up to many washings for how inexpensive they were in comparison.

Of course, he had suggested a more sensible dress, but they were her ducats, and she had been quite clear that she did not take fashion advice from anyone, especially not men.

Which had also led to her purchasing several gowns, the number split evenly between the sort of hearty material he had suggested and the finer garments she actually seemed to enjoy wearing. Just in case he was right, she said, as he was the one who knew better what they might encounter in the ashlands, _and_ she would not permit herself to be viewed as hard-headed or unnecessarily stubborn.

Apparently, that was something of a problem where she came from.

"Well, eating so early in the day, for starters. That's usually a habit born of having means." He shrugged, lifting his mug again. "And that," he said, waving his free hand to indicate her change in attire, "suits you a bit too well."

Hermione looked down at herself. Yes, she supposed one bizarre and unintended outcome of spending so much time in Wizarding society—years of school wearing robes, Ministry functions in dress robes, every now and again even wearing her favorite pair of comfy jeans felt a bit foreign to her—was that she was not unfamiliar with dressing like this. Even if she refused to believe herself comfortable in it.

"Well, I'm not," she said, frowning at the bit of bread she'd torn from the hunk. He noticed how delicate her fingers were as she picked at it; she may deny it, but she _did_ have the breeding, and hands that had clearly never seen a day of hard labor. "I . . . where I'm from, it's not really highborn and lowborn. There are a lot of tiers to wealth and station that simply don't exist here. I'd be more . . . middleborn, I suppose, if there even is such a thing."

That arched silver brow of his settled. "So, a bit of both worlds, then?"

Casting her gaze toward the ceiling in thought, she nodded. That really was the best way to explain herself under the circumstances.

As she returned her attention to him, she spotted a few heads turned toward them among the staff and what few other patrons had the freedom to be in a tavern at this hour of the day. Almost immediately she dropped her head, seeming to focus on her food.

"Why are people staring?" she asked, her voice so low he had to lean toward her over the table a bit to hear her clearly.

A pensive scowl coloring his features, let out a gruff sigh. "We make an odd pair."

Her brows crept upward as she lifted her face to meet his eyes. "You mean a witcher with a _highborn lady_?"

"Precisely. They probably think you're hiring me to handle some sort of creature infestation in your family estate."

He shrugged and gave a short nod before tacking on as he once more lifted his mug for another swig, " _And_ some have never seen my kind before, only heard tell of us. They can't help but stare."

Hermione dropped the bit of bread and pushed aside her unfinished plate. There was a pit in her stomach as she read between the lines on that. She couldn't imagine other witchers were as easy to spot on sight as Geralt of Rivia given his own explanation of his stark appearance, unless they were deliberately wearing their big, shiny School medallion visibly. Perhaps she could stand to be a bit kinder to him, herself. She might be determined to not be stuck in his world very long, but she knew what it was to be judged for circumstances over which one had no control.

"You mean they can't help but stare at the Butcher of Blaviken," she said, her hushed voice sympathetic.

His expression went carefully blank. She thought for a moment she'd accidentally pushed him into shutting down. But then his mouth pinched at the corners, not quite an expression, but no longer entirely unreadable, and he nodded.

Guarded. Stubborn. Sarcastic. Judged by their societies over extraneous factors that had no bearing on the sort of person they actually were. She inhaled and exhaled, feeling the air moving in her lungs as she held his gaze. Perhaps Geralt of Rivia and Hermione of London were not that different.

_Mione of London._

The misspoken name whispered through her mind and she grinned mirthlessly. Taking one last sip of her too-rich, too-pulpy cider, she offered, "I think we should be on our way, now." They had already made all their necessary supply purchases—Geralt had watched the process of her minimizing everything to store it in her pack with perhaps surprisingly subdued shock—and lingering here longer than needed only added to how much longer it would be before she returned home.

She ignored the little voice in the back of her mind that pestered and insisted that she was being ridiculous to weigh minutes given her circumstances, but concentrating on eventually getting home—and hexing Lucius Malfoy within an inch of his miserable life—helped to keep her from panicking. Helped to keep her from wondering about things she didn't want to, like how Geralt's journal looked exactly like the book in the Malfoy family archives. She still hadn't accepted that her initials appearing beside his in that book was anything more than a coincidence.

She stood up from the table, ready to step away from her chair and froze where she stood. _Wait . . . . GR and ML were recorded to have lived in the 13_ _th_ _century._ This might seem like a different past than she'd ever learned about, but there could be any number of explanations for that.

What if she were not simply in some alternate reality or even some obscure pocket of the past, as she'd considered, but a combination of the two? An _alternate past_? If Lucius Malfoy had somehow imbued time magic into the portkey, then it was possible. But how he could create a portkey for a different reality was a question that would have to wait, though would eventually have to be tackled if she were to ever get home.

Yet, now that she'd let herself think it, she couldn't help wondering. Maybe because the portkey had been woven into an item _from_ said alternate reality?

A—she took a deep, steadying breath—a reality hopping time artefact. It would take a lot of power to create even with the proper materials, which could explain the magic draining from the medallion after transporting her. Somehow that . . . made sense, but also felt like it made things worse, because if it were the truth . . . .

His brows shot up at the way she'd paused. "Hermione?"

The witch swallowed hard, her mouth dry as cotton despite the quenching effect of the cider. She didn't want to ask. "What is the year?"

"1275."

Her eyes widened, welling instantly and her throat constricted.

Painfully cognizant of what her reaction indicated, he wasn't sure quite what to ask as he started, "Why would you—?" He cut himself off, mindful suddenly that he wasn't at all sure what he wanted to ask. There had been something to the strange manner in which she spoke on wherever it was she called home. She came from a people of magic, unlike that which he had ever seen in his many travels over all these decades.

Looking about, he saw that the other patrons and staff had finally decided themselves bored of the unusual couple and were going about their own business. Slipping out from his seat at the table at last, he wrapped a hand around her upper arm in a firm but purposefully gentle grip and pulled her outside.

Under normal circumstances, Hermione'd have fought such an aggressive tactic, but this was not normal. Even for her notably bizarre life. She was in too much of a daze to really process anything just now, her brain scrambling to accept the thought she'd let trail off only heartbeats prior.

_Because if it were the truth . . . ._

Once outside of the tavern, he darted a glance about the immediate area. If anyone found out what she was making him suspect about her, she could be in danger. Any mage might well be willing to kill to get their hands on the magic of someone from a different time. Any nobleman might well be willing to kill to own a curiosity like her. Any alchemist might well be willing to kill for a chance to experiment on her.

Spying a cramped alley beside the tavern, he tugged her around the building. Once in the shadowed passageway, he relinquished his hold on her, but turned, blocking her from the street. Or, perhaps, blocking the street from her was a better way to think of it.

_Because if it were the truth . . . ._

This time when he spoke, he was certain of the question he wanted to ask. "Why don't you know the year, Hermione?" His already too-deep voice tumbled from his lips in a low, gravelly pitch that sounded like water dashing against stone. "When is it where you're from?"

_Because if it were the truth . . . ._

She didn't want to answer him. Yet, she understood quite distinctly that he had realized the reason behind her inquiry. If they were traveling together—provided he didn't see this as cause to abandon her to solve her problems on her own—it was only fair he know the truth, even if it sounded completely mad.

It wasn't any attempt to subvert the reality of her situation, it was that speaking on it, acknowledging it felt so final. So damning.

_Because if it were the truth . . . ._

Her heart clenched, icy and painful, in her chest and the tears that had welled, locking in her eyes, broke free to fall down her cheeks. She was scared, she was angry, and she was desperately hoping he wasn't going to leave her alone to this strange history she knew nothing about.

Running the tip of her tongue across her parched lips, Hermione willed the words to tumble from her lips, even as the weight of speaking them made everything more real than it'd been before, settling in the pit of her stomach like a stone that burned all it touched.

"2004. I . . . I was born in the year 1979. Eleven years later, I found out I was a witch. Seven years after that, I fought in a war. Six years later, I was working on some historical documents that led me to this copy of your medallion, which had been enchanted—without my knowledge—and brought me here. I still have no idea how," she finished in a whisper, her words garbled by her tears.

It was as concise a summation as she could provide while still telling him exactly as much as he could possibly need to know.

Those gold eyes of his had gotten wider by increments as he listened.

He didn't bother asking how. Of course, she'd already said she didn't know, but it was the first natural question people always asked when the impossible happened even when they were told the how was unknown.

Instead, he took her by the arm again and started escorting her back to where he'd tied off their horse. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, "You tell no one else what you've just told me, and you do not go anywhere without me."

_Because if it were the truth . . . ._

She could tell easily from his response that her revelation had been a shock, but now she worried for whatever it was that had him so defensive on her behalf. Surely it wasn't because she sounded mad, because he'd not for one second acted as though he believed her insane.

When she didn't respond, he halted, using his hand on her arm to turn her to face him. "You do not leave my side. Is that clear, Hermione?"

He was scared for her. The realization settled over her like the air itself had weight suddenly. The intensity of those gold eyes on hers stole her ability to breathe for a moment.

"Clear," she answered, her voice quiet, a little shaky.

Geralt nodded. He turned and started walking them toward their horse—she'd come up with a name for it, eventually.

As he seated himself and pulled her up into the saddle in front of him, the thought she'd been fighting finally completed.

 _Because if it were the truth_ that the medallion had been turned into some sort of magical amalgam artefact, blending a portkey and a time turner, there was no reversing one effect only the other. She could possibly magically reverse engineer the portkey portion and return to her reality, if she figured out how Lucius had done it, but the time turner portion?

She felt strangely weightless as Geralt kicked the horse to a gallop, Hermione was only half aware of her head lolling back against his chest as her brain tripped and stumbled over the thought.

Even if she got back to her reality, time magic did not propel one forward, only backward. Even if she got back, there would be no way to move forward. She would be in her reality in the later part of the 13th century.

Just like GR and ML.

 _My world is gone_. Her heart plummeted into her stomach and a fresh wash of tears spilled from her eyes.


End file.
